


The Contract

by queenhomeslice



Series: Mandalorian/Reader Stories [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chubby Reader, Curvy Reader, Eventual Smut, F/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Touch-Starved Mandalorian, Unrequited Crush, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, cantina owner reader, fat reader, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhomeslice/pseuds/queenhomeslice
Summary: You're a cantina owner in the newly-rebuilt Ord Mantell City on the planet Ord Mantell, in the Mid-Rim systems. The Galactic Civil War is over; however, the Imperial Remnant still holds sway over the more populous parts of the planet. Deciding that you've had enough of the Empire's lingering presence in your home, you reach out to the bounty hunter's guild for help.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Series: Mandalorian/Reader Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945552
Comments: 25
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CyanideCherub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideCherub/gifts).



> For my dearest CyanideCherub—I hope this helps the Mando lust, babe. Lord knows we've all got it! XD
> 
> Rated E for later chapters  
> _______
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to, nor am I affiliated with, The Walt Disney Company, Lucasfilm, or any affiliate companies or production studios. I do not work for any production companies behind the Star Wars movies, games, books, tv shows, or other published media. I do not own any characters and I am not making money from this.

“Hey!” you shout at the tall, hulking Savrip in the far corner, who’s intimidating an off-worlder. “Not in my cantina, Ra’ghal,” you continue, waving a damp towel at him and gripping the blaster at your hip. “Leave him alone or I’ll shoot your finger off.” 

The native Mantellian Savrip snarls and takes his huge, four-fingered hands off of the nervous Toydarian, sulking back to the bar and mumbling something in his native tongue. 

“Oh, be quiet, he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s hired maintenance for the spaceport, and if you rip his wings off, he can’t repair ships, which’ll cost _me_ a pretty penny in business” you spit, sliding a large tin mug of Corellian whiskey at the reptilian creature. “So you leave him alive, I don’t care what he said about your mother. And this is your last one, by the way, unless you can pay me. Your tab is about as tall as you are.” 

It’s a typical night in your dusty cantina in the newly-rebuilt Ord Mantell City. Even though most homes now are hastily cobbled-together tiny, one-bedroom homes made from scrap metal (and there’s a _lot_ of metal to be salvaged from crashed Star Destroyers), business is booming among the Mid-Rim systems, especially since there’s not really a central galactic government anymore—anyone and everyone passes through your doors, looking for information, for a cheap date, for enough alcohol to forget the horrors of war. 

Even though the bulk of the Empire’s might has been taken down, there are still loyal factions here and there—two Stormtroopers are guarding the door at this very moment. You have allegiance to anyone or anything that keeps you alive and safe, as long as they don’t interfere too much with your business. Republic, Empire, Rebellion, Jedi, Black Sun, the Hutts—you'd been through them all. It’s amazing what you can gain with a friendly smile and a good barrel of wine. The _Shrieking_ _Sarlacc_ was your father’s establishment, and his father’s before his—and now that your family is gone, it’s yours, blooming anew after the smoke from the war had cleared. The cantina houses a large bar and restaurant downstairs, with a raised dais for live music or other entertainment, and eleven rooms for rent upstairs, with the twelfth room being your de-facto home. Your sharp wit, skill with a blaster, and bartending skills have made you an invaluable resource to the rebuild operations on the planet. 

Sighing after your argument with Ra’ghal, you check your comm device, anxiously awaiting the message from the bounty hunter’s guild. While it was true that you’d sought protection from and had made many a contract with the Empire in their heyday, the resurgence of the loyalists on Ord Mantell was starting to wear on you. The Imperial Remnant’s hard-lined politics and—most annoyingly—their city-wide curfew not being the only problems they were causing; and you’d had about enough. Just a few months ago, members of the fledgling new Republic had paid you a hefty sum for information about the location of the old Imperial deepdock—so, being flush with cash and eager to stamp out the growing Imperial sympathizers, you’d contacted the guild and put out a bounty on three Grand Moffs and the squadron of Stormtroopers you knew were hiding out in the rocky mountain terrain east of the city. 

“Excuse me,” comes a deep voice from behind you, sounding almost like a droid but not quite. 

It’s been three hours since you’d checked your comm. The troopers had thrown out a few rowdy patrons about an hour before, and it’s not long until the Imperial curfew. Turning from the cocktail you’re currently mixing, you’re greeted with a sight you thought you’d never see in person, even after all your years of space travel and run-ins with thousands of species and warring factions. Sliding the drink to the big, burly human who’d ordered it, who hands Imperial credits over to you—too many for the price of the drink, not that you’re going to correct him—you move quietly over to the opposite end of the long, curved counter. 

“Can I help you?” you ask. _Wow_. A Mandalorian, in the flesh—or, at least, someone wearing a Mandalorian’s armor. 

The helmeted figure nods slowly. He keeps his hand at his blaster at all times, moving his head around to assess the threat level of the sloppy drunks scattered around at your tables. “Greef said there’d be a contract here.” 

You nod. “Yes, let’s speak upstairs. One moment.” You unclip the comm from your belt and turn it to the Imperial frequency, letting the troopers at the door know that you’re moving upstairs. 

Within seconds, one of the snow-white men comes into the cantina from outside, nodding his head and bringing his blaster to rest at his midriff, finger on the trigger. 

Confident that the soldier can protect the bar—and making a mental list of who might replace the Stormtroopers as bouncers once they’re nixed by the silver man in front of you—you lead the Mandalorian around the curved bar to the stairs. 

Once the two of you are in your bedroom, and you’ve checked your small apartment for signs of tampering or espionage, you power down your commlink and motion to the sinking armchair across from your bed. 

“Have a seat,” you say, nodding, as you sit on the bed, crossing one thick thigh over the other and leaning back on your hands, sighing in relief at the brief respite in standing. “So. The guild sent you.” 

“Yes,” says the Mandalorian, still standing despite your offer. “Contract, three Imperial Grand Moffs, squadron of Stormtroopers.” He pauses. “How many in this ‘squadron’?” 

You click your tongue, face going red. You’d been hazy on the details, deceptive on purpose for fear of your request never being answered. “Ah,” you say quietly, looking down. “A hundred or so, give or take?” 

The Mandalorian makes a skeptical noise in his throat. “One man against a hundred trained soldiers.” 

You wave your hand. “Well you don’t technically have to kill _all_ of them. Even reducing their numbers by a third or so would demoralize and scatter the rest. Hopefully. Probably.” 

“Hm.” The Mandalorian paces back and forth. “The Moffs, do you want them alive?” 

“Hell no, I want them dead,” you chuckle darkly. “I’ll admit I had deals with the Empire in the past, but their ship has sailed and Imperial Remnant on the planet is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Trooper downstairs didn’t seem to bother you.” 

You shrug. “They get free drinks and food in exchange for protection. It’s a contract I could make with anyone who’s handy with a blaster and good for crowd control.” 

“Not attached, then.” 

“Not really, no.” 

“Moffs should be easy, if I can get to them,” the Mandalorian says. “The squadron might be impossible.” 

“Well—just do what you can, I guess.” 

“You should have put out for a team of hunters. This is hardly a solo mission.” 

“Excuse _me_ for not knowing bounty hunter hiring etiquette,” you gruff as you roll your eyes. 

The man crosses his arms—and even though he’s wearing a helmet, you can feel his heated gaze on you. Something about it makes you shiver and flush hot in spite of yourself. “I’ll require half of the payment up front, and a room.” 

You nod. “That won’t be a problem.” 

“The room must be secure—I'll be storing valuable cargo while I’m here.” 

“Each room key is encrypted to its own door—someone would have to blast it down to get inside if they didn’t have the key.” 

“You don’t have a master device?” 

You grin widely. “Damn, you’re smart. I swear to the Maker that I won’t go in your room, Mando. Not unless you give me cause to, if I suspect something there could endanger my establishment and my customers.” 

“It’s not dangerous,” he says hesitantly. 

“Your pause tells me otherwise, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—for now.” 

The Mandalorian nods and unclips his subspace transceiver from his belt. “Payment, now.” 

You reach in your back pocket for your own long-range device and within seconds, you complete a credit transfer for half of the bounty’s sum. “I keep the room keys downstairs behind the bar. Lucky for you, the room right next to mine is available for rent.” 

The Mandalorian nods and says nothing in reply to that comment, clipping his transceiver back on his belt. “Where is this Remnant stronghold?” 

“In the east mountains.” You stand and press your fingertip against a pad on a solid black box that’s on top of your desk—it hisses open, and you pull out a small data chip. “Conned this out of one of the patrols a while back. It’s the location of the base, schematics, names of the troopers and the moffs, anything you could want about the Remnant here on Ord Mantell.” 

The Mandalorian takes it gently in his gloved hands and reaches for his transceiver again. 

You hold up a hand. “I wouldn’t do that here. It’s sensitive data, and the Imperials could pick up on a foreign device.” 

“I know what I’m doing,” says the Mandalorian, but slides the tiny chip into a compartment on his belt anyway, heeding your warning. 

“Well, come on then. I’ll get you your key so you can store your ‘precious cargo.’” 

You hear the surly bounty hunter leave the cantina in the wee hours of the morning; you’d secured a landspeeder for him at the spaceport on the edge of town for him to ride out to the eastern mountains to complete the job. You shower and dress, heating up leftovers you’d taken from the kitchen before shutting down last night. After your meager breakfast, you check your inventory, reaching out to your suppliers with the few spirits that you realized you were low on. 

And then...curiosity gets the best of you. You dig out the master key from your desk drawer—it's a shiny black card, no bigger than the palm of your hand. Slipping out quietly into the hallway, you press the card to the scanner by Room 11, and the door hisses quietly open. 

The room is spartan, the only real tell of a tenant is the unmade bed and some sacks on the floor—and the levitating metal sphere in the center of the room. Swallowing thickly, you back out of the room and let the door slide shut, racking your brain for ideas of what in the stars is inside the silver orb. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A botched job, a missing baby—Mando's in over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "dwang" is like "shit," used by Clone Troopers in the Clone Wars  
> "Laserbrain"--we all know what this means, lol  
> "Stoopa" is Huttese insult, basically calling someone stupid   
> "Bantha poodoo" --Huttese for "bantha fodder" (food for banthas is smelly and gross, so you get the idea)  
> "Sithspit"--a strong phrase to express anger, which originated on Corellia  
> "Shab" is Mandalorian, like "shit"

The lunch rush is just easing off, with most patrons now full and half-drunk, almost asleep in their booths and tables. Your old line cook, a grizzly Falleen named Ne’dav, had been watching the bar while you’d snuck to the back for a helping of liver and vegetable stew—when suddenly he bursts into the kitchen, making you and the other staff jump. 

“Hey boss,” he garbles in Basic. “Think you need to see something.” 

“Ah, _dwang_ ,” you curse setting your empty bowl near the sink full of soapy water and dishes. “What is it? Someone causing trouble?” 

“Ah, no ma’am—not exactly,” he mumbles, clearly agitated and out of his element. 

“Okay, fine. Get back in here, I’m through eating. Thanks for watching the front.” 

“Sure,” he says nervously, pushing his towering body past you, eager to get back to his large grill. 

You make your way back out to the front—it's the typical cantina scene, complete with the solo Bith musician on the dais, playing a relaxing tune on his keyboard. Nothing seems amiss, but before you can go back into the kitchen and call Ne’dav a _laserbrain,_ you hear a quiet coo amid the music and the chatter of foreign languages. 

Leaning down over the counter, you see the source of the quiet noise—and possibly the source of your cook’s concern. 

It’s a baby. 

A tiny green baby, wearing a tan robe. Its big, black eyes blink up at you expectantly, like you’re the source of whatever it’s looking for. Its tiny green head tilts to the side, and its huge pointy ears twitch in excitement. It reaches up its stubby arms, wiggling its three clawed fingers, and coos brightly, clearly indicating that it wants to be held. 

Okay, well. You never imagined yourself as a mother—for starters, your heart had been broken too many times to count, and besides, who wants to raise an actual child in the current state of the galaxy? Consistent vying for power, petty war after war—no thanks. You had your cantina and kitchen staff to look after, and that was quite enough mothering for one human lifetime, thank you. But, _damn_ —if this little thing didn’t have you wrapped around its tiny finger in an instant. 

“Oh my stars,” you purr, hurrying around the counter and picking up the tiny green thing. “Where in the world did you come from?” 

The child just squeaks out a response, grasping your long necklaces in its three short digits, lifting them to its mouth. 

“Whoa, hey, you can’t eat those, buddy!” you giggle, reclaiming your jewelry. “Are you hungry?” You survey the counter—there's only a few patrons seated, and everyone looks content to nurse what’s already in front of them, so you wander to the kitchen opening. “Ne’dav,” you chuckle. “Is this what had you acting all frizzled?” 

The giant Falleen shrinks back a little from where he’s frying some meat on the grill. “Listen, boss! You don’t know where that came from!” 

“It’s just a baby,” you shrug. 

The little one’s black eyes grow even wider once he lays eyes on Falleen’s grill. He reaches out and nearly launches himself into mid-air, flailing for the food. 

“I think he’s hungry. Here, give him some of that.” 

“What? C’mon, this is for an order!” 

“This. Is. A. Baby,” you spit in his native tongue, forgoing Basic in hopes that you’d be taken a little more seriously. “Give it some food, _stoopa,_ ” you curse at him. 

Ne’dav sighs in defeat and turns to the giant island in the middle of the kitchen, grabbing a dented copper dish and plating the meat. He grumbles as he reaches inside of the cooler for more. 

You hold the plate in front of the baby and within seconds, the meat is gone, inhaled like a black hole swallowing a sun. “Son of a blaster,” you mutter. “Poor thing was starving.” You turn to your sous chef, a quiet Bith named Rem. “Rem, I’m going to leave him back here. Feed him some stew, all right?” 

“Me?” the Bith sputters. “But, my lady, I—” 

“Hey. I’m in charge here. And I want this thing fed and looked after until we find who it belongs to.” You turn on your heel and head back out to the bar, moving to quickly serve some new patrons who’d just arrived. 

Mando has now been gone for almost twenty hours—you'd heard no sign of him, and no sign of anything gone wrong—so far. There are two Stormtroopers outside the cantina entrance, as usual, and a dozen more or so patrolling the streets and aiding with the rebuilding efforts of the massive city. It’s easy to get lost in your own secluded corner of the sprawling cosmopolitan center—you don’t even remember when’s the last time you visited the Mon Calamari opera house on the other side of town. The new Ord Mantell City is bigger and better than the one that was destroyed in the Clone Wars—if the Empire was anything, they were efficient in keeping up with planets where they had a vested technological and economic interest. And so, to return to the good graces of the people of the planet, they’d put a lot of time, credits, and effort into the rebuilding process. You smirk to yourself as you head upstairs with the now-dozing little green baby—you’d gotten what you wanted from the Empire (a new cantina, a rebuilt home), and now, if the Mandalorian was as good as his word, you’d be rid of their warmongering ways for the rest of your life. 

Sighing with relief at the relatively calm day, you enter your room and set the baby on the bed, undressing from your clothes and into a plain, oversized tunic. The baby stirs a little in his sleep but doesn’t wake. You brush your teeth as you gaze at the little alien on the bed—who was he (or she)? Where did it come from? What _species_ was it? It didn’t seem capable of speech; yet somehow, you’d known exactly what it had wanted—to be held, to eat. Sighing, you rinse your mouth and turn off the light, sliding under the covers next to the dozing infant. You reach out and take its rough little hand in your own, heart clenching in the weirdest of ways as it grips a single one of your fingers in its tiny green appendages. 

_________ 

The loud banging jolts you awake, causing you to fumble with the lamp by your bed, eager to shed some light on the situation. The baby had barely shifted during the night, but at the sound of the loud, reverberating knocks on the door, it blinks awake and wiggles its ears, face scrunching up in confusion and sadness. 

“Hey, little one, don’t cry, it’s all right,” you coo quietly as you pick him up and move to the door. “I’m coming, you _bantha poodoo!_ ” you spit. “You better have a good reason for disturbing me so…” You tap your security code in on the panel by the door and it swishes open. 

“ _You,_ ” rasps Mando, and fuck—he looks like he just got into a fight with a rancor. His armor is burned and pockmarked with dents, blood is leaking from his leg, and he’s holding his ribs, as though they’re broken. But whatever else he was going to say dies on his tongue as he looks at the sleepy baby in your arms. 

The little green tyke’s huge ears perk up immediately, and he babbles nonsense, reaching out for the bloodied and beaten-up bounty hunter. The Mandalorian takes him into his arms in an instant, petting his small back and scratching behind his ears. It’s intimate, and really damn adorable. You cross your arms over your chest as you assess him. You’re not stupid—it looks like the whole operation went belly up. 

“What were you doing with him?” Mando grunts as he plays with the baby. 

“Excuse me? My kitchen staff found him wandering around the cantina, _alone_. I fed him and looked after him.” You pause. “Wait. Is he…yours? Are you his father?” 

Mando’s head snaps up. “No.” A beat. “Well, not—biologically. We’re…a clan of two. I rescued him. Until I find his kind, he’s under my care.” 

“Hm, that’s very noble of you. Is this your ‘precious cargo’?” you ask, thinking back to the floating sphere you’d seen in his room yesterday morning. 

The Mandalorian nods and says nothing as he continues to stroke the baby and lull it back to sleep. 

“I see. And the job?” 

_That_ gets his attention. “I _told_ you you should have hired a team,” he mutters weakly. “I managed to take out two Moffs and ten ‘troopers before reinforcements came.” 

You blink, trying to wrap your head around what he’s saying. “Re…reinforcements?” 

“Tie fighters, a troop transport, a walker.” he grits out, squeezing his side again after he shifts the baby to the opposite shoulder. “And a second squadron.” 

“A _walker_? Sithspit! They knew you were coming,” you sigh as you press your fingers to your eyes. “Look, Mando, I’m sorry—just keep the money, all right?” 

“If you want them gone, you’re going to have to contact the new Republic.” The bounty hunter leans on your door jamb, weak at the knees. “Too much, even for me.” 

“I see. Well, thanks anyway. And I’m sorry.” 

“You’d better be careful,” he mutters. “If they find out you’re the one behind it—” 

“You think this is my first time hiring from the guild? Please. I’ve stayed alive in spite of a lot of things, Mando. I can take care of myself.” 

He grunts, coughing through his helmet—the voice changer makes it sound like he’s dying. 

“Are you okay? Can I…help you?” 

“No,” he says. “Need sleep. Need to keep the child out of danger.” 

The paternal instincts of the Mandalorian seem to be wearing on your usual hard edges. The mystery man in front of you is fascinating from helmet to boot—you don’t even know what he looks like, or what he sounds like when he’s not speaking through the distortion device in his helmet. You feel yourself grow a little warm the longer you stand in the doorway, looking at him all battle-scarred, and you in nothing but a thin tunic and robe. He’s considerably taller than you, both in presence and in actual height. You idly wonder when’s the last time he’s gotten any—Maker, when was the last time _you’d_ gotten any? 

A devious plot begins to form in your mind. “Say, Mando,” you purr in what you hope is a feminine, sexy voice. “We agreed on the credits, and the room—but there’s a surcharge for babysitting,” you say, opening ogling him. 

“Hhhnnn,” he groans, breathing still labored. “Name your price.” 

You lick your lips. “You.” 

The bounty hunter had been poised to turn away from your door and go to his own room next door, but he stops dead in his tracks. “Excuse me?” He tilts his head, the slits of his helmet reflecting your own distorted image in the low lamplight. 

“I said, I want _you_ , as payment.” 

“Can’t,” he says, actually turning away. 

“I don’t want to take every credit you own,” you say softly, reaching out for his tattered cape and pulling him a little backwards, causing him to stumble. “C’mon. We both know that credits aren’t the only way to pay someone for their services. I’m a fair gal, and I don’t bite. Well—unless you’re into that.” 

Mando looks at you a long time. “The creed,” he says slowly and deliberately, as though he’s trying to explain this to the baby in his arms. “I am forbidden to remove my helmet in front of any living thing. This is the way.” 

You shrug. “Unless I’m wrong in assuming you’re human, your dick isn’t located inside of your helmet, Mando. Leave it on, I’m not trying to make you violate whatever code of ethics you might have.” 

He tilts his head as though he’s thinking. “Been—been a long time,” he almost whispers. 

“Let me take care of you, yeah? You look injured, for starters.” 

“Wait, the…the baby…” 

“Can sleep in his little pod right next door. Or, _shab_ , right here even, unless you’re dedicated to preserving his innocence. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know what was going on, anyway.” You hold your breath, waiting for his reply. 

“Okay.” He looks down at the child. “The baby stays with me.” He looks back up at you, and damn, you wish you could see his face, just once. But beggars can’t be choosers. 

You grin in response. “We have a contract, Mando.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shab" is like the Mandalorian version of "shit"

Once the little green baby is sound asleep in his floating pod, the Mandalorian slowly peels out of his armor, setting his weapons along your sleek silver desk with practiced care. You can only watch as inch by inch of his scarred, brown skin is revealed to you. He’s all lean muscle, toned thighs, taut ass, strong arms. He momentarily places his hands on his helmet, and then sighs heavily, his sculpted shoulders heaving with defeat. 

“Hey,” you say gently. “Mando, it’s okay. I’m not mad about it.” 

“The Way is difficult,” he murmurs. “I can see you, but you cannot see me.” 

“My imagination is pretty strong,” you chuckle, patting the bed. “Come, sit.” You’d dug out your stash of bandages and bacta ointment and laid them out beside you. 

Mando sits—his ribs are bruised, and there’s a pretty gnarly gash in his thigh. You get to work wiping away the caked-on blood and cleaning it with your sterile solution, apologizing over and over as the bounty hunter’s breath hitches in pain. It’s a quietly intimate thing, dressing the wounds of the man you’d only met barely two days before, that you’re about to fuck into the mattress. Even through his soft grunts of discomfort, he says nothing as you clean him up and gently touch him. He’s naked except for his stupid silver helmet, and the rest of his body is so beautiful, you can only wonder what his face looks like. Biting your lip, you look up at him from your position on the floor where you’ve just wrapped his upper thigh in ointment, gauze, and tape. His thick cock hangs half-hard between his legs, nestled in a patch of thick, dark hair. It makes your mouth water—that he’s already showing interest from having you touch him. The power is intoxicating, knowing that such a practiced killer is so human underneath all that damn beskar. 

You shift between his legs, placing your hands gently on his knees and run your fingers tenderly along his inner thighs. 

Mando chokes, looks down and away. 

“Is this all right?” you whisper. 

He nods, then, so quiet that his voice distortion device almost hides the words, “Let me see you.” 

Your eyes go wide, but you brace yourself on his legs and stand, stripping off your robe and tunic, followed by your underwear. You stand nude before him in all of your soft, lumpy glory, the tension palpable because of his hidden reactions. You feel yourself blush under his attention, and you feel your core getting wetter at the unexpected direction of the night. 

He nods. “I...don’t know what to say.” 

You shrug. “I know I’m not the galaxy’s most beautiful woman,” you start, but he cuts you off with a fierce shake of his head. 

“No.” A pause. “You’re...quite beautiful. Like I said, it’s...been a while. I apologize for my...” 

“Inexperience? Awkwardness?” You giggle. “Hey, I said it was all right. I want to make you feel good, okay? We could both use some stress relief. But you promise to tell me if I do anything that you don’t like?” 

“Promise.” 

“Deal.” You kneel back down, and the bounty hunter spreads his legs, thick cock even more at attention. His balls are heavy and red, ripe and full and ready to be emptied. Smirking and licking your lips, you run your fingers from the tops his thighs to his knees a few more times, careful to avoid his injury, to get him more used to your touch. With shaky breaths, you reach out and grip the base of his length, which makes him moan immediately, fisting long, deft fingers into your sheets and leaning his head back. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” you murmur, face flushed with arousal. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” You kiss the velvet head of his cock, swirling your tongue around a few times before taking the first few inches of him into your mouth. 

He lets out a string of low curses, some of them in various languages, as his hips buck out, seeking more and more of your hot, wet mouth. “ _Shab_ ,” he groans out, voice crackling through his helmet. “Maker, I...” 

You pop off, spitting on his leaking head and giving him a few long, languid strokes. “That doing it for you, love?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” the Mandalorian breathes. “I...” 

Bless his heart, his whole body is shaking just from this little bit of attention. There’s a small hint of annoyance in the back of your mind that he’ll get off quick and leave you hanging, but it’s quickly overpowered the sudden need to make him see his Maker and have the best orgasm of his life. Staying your hand and holding his cock steady, you swallow him down again, this time going deep enough to bury your nose in his coarse dark hair. 

Mando struggles not to scream and wake the whole cantina as his hand flies to the back of your head, gripping it hard. Pure lust and instinct take over as he begins to thrust, giving you no respite as he uses your drooling mouth for his pleasure. You grip his knee hard, nails digging into his skin and giving him a whole new set of bruises, but the pain only seems to spur him on. 

The bounty hunter comes just minutes later with as loud of a cry as he’ll allow himself, shooting thick ropes of white down your throat. He comes _buckets_ , throbbing inside of your mouth and throat for what seems like an eternity. You gulp down everything he has to offer, the musky and salty taste of him only making you grow wetter. Damn, it’s been way too long since you had a proper man to take care of—the power trip of the whole night is the headiest aphrodisiac you can imagine. 

When he flags a little, you pull off, licking him clean and pressing a kiss to his head. But he’s not completely soft— _Maker,_ he _is_ backed up, the poor thing. You wait on your knees for Mando to sit upright—he'd leaned back on his elbows, helmeted head thrown back in pleasure. He does so moments later, when he realizes that you’re no longer touching him. 

“Was that good for you?” you murmur, thumbing soft circles on the inside of his slender, toned thigh. 

“Yes,” he pants, and even through the voice distortion, you can tell that he’s already utterly wrecked. “Please, I’m not finished, I need...” 

“I’m gonna give you what you need, baby, don’t worry,” you purr, standing up and moving to straddle his lap. 

He stiffens as you bring your hands up, but you simply clasp them behind his head, letting them hang, as you pepper kisses along his neck and the dip of his collarbones. He tilts his head to the side, granting you more access. Slowly, you feel him place his own hands on your shoulders, squeezing them, trailing those long trigger fingers down your back, massaging at your thick curves. His breath quickens again, chest heaving. 

“Like what you’re feeling?” you mutter into his sweaty skin. 

“Yes,” he grunts. “So...so soft...” 

“I am, yeah. Feels good, doesn’t it? A lifetime of holding cold, metal things—guns, grenades, handcuffs for your bounties...but I’m nothing like that, aren’t I? I’m not the cold silver interior of your ship, I’m not the soulless void of space.” 

“No,” he agrees, growing bolder, snaking one hand between your bodies to cup your breast, gasping softly. “Feels...feels good...” 

“Mmmmm,” you hum in appreciation, slowly grinding your hips in circles on his lap. He’s got one hand on your breast and the other settled on your plush hip, kneading your soft fat like he just can’t get enough. You can feel his hard length rutting up against you and you nuzzle into his neck again, sucking a bruise onto his delicious skin. 

Mando gasps. “Please,” he begs. “Please let me...” 

“Tell me what you want, Mando.” 

“I want...I want to fuck you...” he says, unsure of himself, awkward and shy. 

“Oh, yes,” you say as you grind down, feeling his cock slide between your wet folds. 

“Please,” he begs again, voice cracking inside of his helmet. 

“It’s okay to take control,” you whisper. “I’m sturdy, I can take it. Do with me what you will.” 

Mando snaps. He moves both strong hands under your fat ass and squeezes tight, lifting you as he stands. He lays you on the bed and flips you over, holding your head down as he shifts your knees up and your legs apart. You feel bared and exposed—face down, ass up, ready to be mounted by the mysterious bounty hunter. The Mandalorian trails his fingers from the back of your neck down your spine, over the curve of your ass and your thick thighs. He teases in between your legs, fingering your folds, grunting in appreciation. 

“This...this gets you so wet,” he murmurs. 

You wiggle your hips in agreement. “You get me wet,” you confess. 

“You don’t even know what I look like.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I can see that you’re a good man. That’s rare.” 

“You would not think so...if you knew the nature of my profession.” Mando finally stops his teasing and pushes his finger inside of you, causing you to moan wantonly into your sheets. 

“Oh, baby, yes yes _yes_ ,” you sing for him, thrusting back on his fingers. “It’s been a while for me too, fuck, Mando, open me up...” 

The bounty hunter grunts and continues to finger you open, taking his time, teasing and pumping his fingers gently inside of you. “You make pretty noises,” he says after a while. 

“Oh, _shab_ ,” you curse, choking back tears. “You’re so good, Mando, you’re doing _so_ well, that’s a _good_ boy,” you praise as you clench around his fingers. A few more well-timed hits to your core has you shaking involuntarily as you come, drenching the bounty hunter’s fingers with your slick. 

“Do not turn around,” he says firmly. 

You nod and whimper in obedience, still riding your high. 

“You taste good,” and, oh _Maker_ , you realize that he’s taken off his helmet and is licking your essence from his fingers. His voice is soft and deep without the helmet’s distortion, as smooth as butter but wrecked from such an onslaught of pleasure after having been without for Maker knows how long. 

His hands are gripping your hips again in moments. “Thank you,” he says, and the helmet’s back on now, but the trust he’s just placed in you makes your heart clench. 

“Anything,” you sob into the sheets. “Anything for you.” 

The Mandalorian grips the base of his cock and teases your dripping pussy with the tip, taking his sweet time as he pushes into you, inch by inch. A punched-out groan escapes from his throat when his groin is flush against your ass—he's buried balls deep inside of you, cock throbbing as your slick walls convulse around him. 

“Take me,” you moan. “Please, please...” 

“ _Yes_ , ____________,” he grunts as he begins to move. 

This is the first time he’s said your name in the almost two days of knowing him, and the flood of emotions has you reeling. You cry out in ecstasy, not caring who hears as the Mandalorian begins to pound into you from behind. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end.

You wake sometime in the early morning to the soft cries of the baby, and muffled speech soothing it. You turn over to see the Mandalorian half dressed in his pants and boots, shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding the little green child in his arms, holding a bottle as it drinks greedily. The soft light of the sun bathes the mysterious bounty hunter in hues of golden orange—there's a faint earthy smell, and your room feels warmer than it did the night before. You realize that Mando had probably taken a shower after you’d fallen asleep; and you mentally curse when you wish you could’ve joined him, telling yourself that this is nothing more than his payment to you. 

“How horribly domestic,” you whisper, watching him feed the child. 

“Good morning,” comes the distorted voice within the helmet. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Better than I have in a long time.” 

The Mandalorian rises, still feeding the baby, and looks at you. You’re still naked, bedhead evident and sheets pooled around your waist and legs. You wonder what he’s thinking—if he’s envisioning the same thing you are: him, here, forever, renouncing the bounty hunter profession and the code of Man’dalore, the two of you running the cantina until you’re old and gray, raising the infant as though it was your own human child. You sigh at the dream that can never be realized. 

“What are you feeding it?” you ask, desperate to get out of your own head and your own feelings. 

“Enhanced proteins,” he says. “Special powder formulated for young ones. Balanced with enzymes and vital nutrients.” 

“That’s...really honorable of you. To care for it like that.” 

“We’re a clan,” repeats the Mandalorian. “It is the priority of the Way to put children first.” 

You watch as Mando feeds the child the formula, bringing him up over his bare shoulder to burp him. Within minutes, the child is asleep again. The bounty hunter gently places the baby in his floating pod and closes the lid, moving it from the bedside closer to the wall. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For not...taking back part of the fee. His food is expensive.” 

“Oh. Well, I was happy to oblige. I can give you the rest of the bounty, if you really need it...” 

The Mandalorian shakes his head. “I didn’t finish the job. Barely even met the requirements for it. It feels wrong to collect payment.” 

“Like you said—it was a job I should never have asked one person to do, anyway. Seriously, Mando. I do well enough. That money was paid to me for information; I didn’t take it out of the cantina’s budget.” 

The bounty hunter is silent as he turns, stripping off what underclothes he’d dressed in, and you’re greeted with his gorgeous brown body again, cock half-hard as he looks at you. “I would rather pay _you_ , again. If that is agreeable.” 

You lick your lips as the helmeted man climbs onto the bed. “Hm, yes. Interest. The baby _did_ sleep in my room last night, after all.” 

The bounty hunter lets out a breathy laugh that crackles through his voice distortion device as he lies on his back and gestures for you to get on top of him. 

“But I do hope you’ve enjoyed, _ah_ , paying,” you say with a smirk as you stroke his cock to full hardness, reveling in the way his hips jerk at your slightest touch. You lean down to put your mouth on him again, sighing with contentment at his clean scent and the way he cards his rough fingers through your hair. 

“Please,” he rasps. “I want to come inside of you again.” 

You pop off of his length and give the swollen velvet head a few kisses and swirls of your tongue before climbing on top of him, framing his slender hips with your own thick thighs. The Mandalorian holds his cock steady as you sink down on top of him—you're still wet and open from the night before, and he slides right back into you like a tailored glove. 

He moans like a whore inside of that damn helmet, arching his back and gripping both of your hands to help you sit up. “Beautiful,” he whispers. 

“You could stay,” you mumble as you start to gently rock your hips, sniffing back a stray tear. Maker, what is _wrong_ with you? Either your dry spell lasted too long or he’s using Force mind tricks to get you to fall for him. You don’t even _know_ him, not really—you're embarrassed that you’re even asking. 

He grunts in pleasure as he matches your rhythm, caramel body glistening in a faint sheen of sweat already. “I can’t,” he groans. “It’s so tempting, but...” 

“Fuck, Mando,” you gasp as you feel him grow even harder. He bends his legs and plants his feet flat on the bed, rocking you forward a little and filling you up at a better angle. “ _Shab! Fuck me!”_ you cry out, emotions running hot as tears stream down your face. Maker, he’s so big, and you feel yourself shaking in the overstimulation as he fills you up and assaults your dripping core. 

You hear him grunt loudly as he shudders and comes inside of you just minutes later—but he doesn’t stop fucking you. He’s still hard, and he drops one of your hands to squeeze at your heavy breast, chest heaving and breath coming through his helmet in jagged staccato. 

“So...so _soft_ ,” he whines—and then, with sudden force, he fluidly flips the two of you so that he’s on top of you, bringing one thick leg up over his sculpted shoulders, leaning low over you and pressing his chest to yours. He leans his helmet on your forehead and you shiver with the feel of the cool metal against your forehead. 

You wind an arm around the back of his neck and pull him closer; you feel him stiffen as you press a kiss to the bottom half of his helmet. “It’ll have to do,” you whisper. 

The Mandalorian just nods and grunts loudly as he continues to grind down inside of you. 

Your eyes flutter closed and now _you’re_ the one arching your back and trying to drag him in deeper. You feel him wedge his hand in between your bodies to rub soft circles on your clit, making you whimper and writhe in the sheets, fisting them in a white-knuckled grip. 

“Mando,” you cry out. “I’m so close, baby, please please...” 

“Come for me,” he rasps, voice shaky and wrecked inside of his helmet. 

Your orgasm crashes into you like two suns colliding into a supernova, white hot and all-consuming. You vaguely register high-pitched groans from the man above you as he pumps you full of his own release. Mando pulls out and curses as he grips his cock and shoots the last of his spend on your curvy naked body, chest heaving and shoulders slacking as he shakily comes down from the high. 

“Is the contract fulfilled?” he asks cheekily. 

You laugh as you drag your fingers through the sticky cum on your stomach, licking it from your fingers while maintaining eye—well, helmet—contact. “I’ll consider this adequate payment, yes.” 

The Mandalorian chuckles quietly. 

________ 

It’s not easy to watch Mando leave the cantina, sealed floating orb in tow, hand on the blaster at his hip. You’re wiping down glasses as he comes up to the bar, leaning close. “I suppose this is goodbye,” he says, voice neutral. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” you say sadly. 

He shakes his head. “It is. But,” he tilts his head. “Not goodbye forever.” 

“No? That’s good. I didn’t even learn your real name.” 

You can’t see it, but you have a feeling the Mandalorian is smiling. “I’ll tell it to you next time.” 

And then he’s gone, walking towards the door, little green baby in tow. You sigh to yourself as you watch him, the gears turning in your head about who to contact to take out the Imperial Remnant...and about what job would be worthy of calling the bounty hunter back to Ord Mantell for. 


End file.
